


The Test Of Living

by ruric



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-23
Updated: 2005-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>We have to distrust each other. It’s our only defense against betrayal</i> ~ Tennessee Williams</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Test Of Living

In the silence of his cabin, where there’s no crew to see, no eyes to be looking at him shining with trust and belief, Mal can let his shoulders droop a little as he sinks down to his bunk.

Elbows resting on his knees, forehead cradled against his fingers - his thumbs pressing into his temples, working small circles trying to ease the pounding ache away - he can admit to himself what he can’t admit to them…yet. Each turning year is becoming harder, the ‘verse is getting smaller and The Alliance is spreading faster, slowly eroding their opportunities and options.

And they keep looking to him. Their eyes bright with their faith in him, in his legendary luck and his ability to pull off one more job, to keep them in the air, fed and clothed, and to keep Serenity flying. But the sky is getting smaller, the number of planets they can call safe becoming fewer and the jobs, legal or not, are harder to find.

The only time he can allow himself to think on this is in the quiet hours, when Serenity’s locked down and his crew is asleep. Sometimes he sneaks out onto the bridge, sneaking being the word, ‘cause he doesn’t want to worry the crew, doesn’t want them to see their Captain ghosting around sleepless when he should be in his bunk. So yeah, he sneaks, bootless and quiet, out onto the bridge, _his_ bridge, to look out into the black and ask the ‘verse for one more boon – to let him keep his ship in the air and his crew together for just a little longer…another week, month, year.

He once told the Shepherd he didn’t believe, that God wasn’t welcome on his boat, and it’s been long since he tore the small cross on its delicate silver chain from around his neck and ground it into the dirt beneath his boot after the battle of Serenity Valley. True enough The War took his faith, took it and shredded it with the bloodied claws of the righteous and victorious, leaving him with nothing for a long while…nothing but the black.

He’d spent hours staring into the night sky during the lulls between those last few battles, when they knew they’d lost, watching the reddish bloom of rocket and mortar, letting the light blind him until he saw nothing but black, tasting only the dust of the graves of his friends on his tongue. He’s spent enough nights since then, looking out from the bridge, to know that he and the black have reached an agreement of sorts.

When the time comes it can have him body and soul, gladly given, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let it get his ship or his crew.

Sprawling back on his bunk letting his shoulders roll against the metal of the bulkhead, he can feel the thrumming of the engines steady as a heartbeat. He knew what she was first time he saw her abandoned in the junk yard, he didn’t see how she looked _then_ , just saw the potential of what she _could_ be. Sure enough she cleaned up real well – she’ll never be a flashy beauty, never have the brash shinyness or the clean, sharp lines to be the kind of ship that makes your jaw hit the ground and goosebumps roll over your skin. But her long curves and scars and pitted metal have a homey, warm attractiveness those sleeker ships lack, and she has something they’ll never have. A heart, a soul.

His hand moves from his face to press against the warm metal, palm flat, fingers splayed, petting her like a cat. He has to keep going, not just for the people who depend on him, but for her, and he knows as long as he keeps her in the air they’ll never catch him or his crew. She can be a _ta ma de bu hui hen de po fu_ at times, but he trusts her, knows she won’t let him down. Hell, she’s proved time and again she won’t let him down, not while there’s life in her engines and her hull holds together.

Leaning further back, shoulders sliding down the metal, he closes his eyes. Too tired to sleep deeply, but he’s soothed into a doze by the lullaby hum of Serenity’s engines.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The short, sharp, rap of knuckles on metal brings his head up, pulls him from his bunk to his feet. Jayne’s knock has never been so much a request for entry, rather an announcement of his presence not to be denied. Ain’t no way he’s ever gonna get Jayne to wait for a yea or nay, accepted that a long time ago but sometimes it still riles him some.

Solid thunk of boots hitting metal of the ladder rings in his ears as Mal shakes his head blinking away the last fuzziness from his vision. Waits until Jayne kicks off the last few rungs to jump to the floor before he speaks.

“You know you’re supposed to wait for an invitation, right?”

Jayne’s eyebrow arches up, fingers of one hand curving round the ladder, hip resting against it as his eyes meet and hold Mal’s gaze.

“ _Chi ni de_. If I’d waited for an _invitation_ we’d still be...lemme see, oh yeah, exactly nowhere.”

There’s not much he can say to that, seeing as how it’s most likely true, 'cause the first rule he’d made for himself was not to mess with the crew. Can’t afford for a Captain to be fuzzy headed where the crew are concerned. So he’d made the rule and he’d stuck to it no matter what the temptation, and it had cost him dear. It had cost him Inara.

He’d taken that loss out on them all until one day Jayne had slid down the ladder, knotted a fist in his shirt and a hand round his wrist _before_ he could get to his gun and given him another way to work off his loss and anger.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first time it had happened he’d walked onto the bridge the next day, bruise on his cheek and a bite visible just above his collar and Wash had made some bad joke about him tumbling some doxy in the fleshpots of Eavesdown Docks, laughing until Mal turned the 1000 yard stare on him. He stuttered to silence, looking to Zoe for help before dropping his gaze and blushing to the tips of his ears, muttering apologies until Mal turned on his heel and left.

Zoe’s footsteps had followed him down the corridor whilst he tried to pretend he wasn’t running away, away from eyes that saw too much and always had done. He’d stopped, shoulders tensed, not daring to turn around and look at her, afraid of what she might see in his face. Waited until she caught him, until he heard her settle her feet, knowing how she’d be standing without having to turn and look. Feet spread, stance solid, ready for whatever might come her way.

He’d waited whilst the seconds ticked by, listening to nothing but her soft breath and the pounding of his own heart, hearing her slightly exasperated sigh and the glide of cotton on leather underlying her words as she braced for his reaction.

“Is this going to be a problem, sir?”

He’d turned round to face her because he couldn’t help himself, saw no judgment, just concern and worry in her eyes. He couldn’t lie to her, she’d guarded his back for years, couldn’t offer her platitudes and half-truths, but he could ask her a question.

“Why – do you think it will be?”

Waited whilst she looked at him, whilst she thought it through, her eyes going distant and unfocused. Zoe understood battle and fighting and what a man needed, living with Wash had leavened some of that – but not to the point where she didn’t remember. Waited for her to come back to him, for her eyes to focus on his face.

“No. Not now. Not yet. And if and when it does I’ll tell you, sir.”

Later that night when he’d gone to supper Kaylee had gasped and started towards him, freezing in place when Jayne came into the galley, taken one look at the bruises on Jayne’s arms before glancing over Mal’s shoulder. Didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know she was looking to Zoe - could picture the exact look on Zoe’s face, the slow shake of her head that made Kaylee stop and subside into her chair, eyes lowered to the dishes in front of her.

Simon...Simon had retreated behind icy politeness and obliviousness.

Wasn’t until the fifth time it happened, when he fetched up in med with split knuckles, a cracked rib that needed strapping and deep bites on his shoulders that he saw anything else. Simon’s fingers were gentle as they ghosted over his skin, soothing away the acid burn of antiseptic, warm fingers pressing to the back of his neck in a soft touch before Simon stepped away, well out of Mal’s reach.

“Understand I ask this as your physician. Is there anything you need to tell me or show me?”

He’d raised his eyes to see a compassion he hadn’t expected, more fixing to see disgust and distaste, so it took him a few minutes to figure out what the doc was **really** asking him. Then it was his turn to feel the flush of blood in his cheeks, tongue clumsy in his mouth, no way to explain what went on in his cabin to a man like the doc.

His gaze dropped to the clean floor of the med lab, a bone weary sigh rattling up his throat.

“No Doc, you don’t have to worry about that.”

Whisper of sound as Simon had stepped close, gentle fingers binding his ribs and soothing his skin, words breathed so softly into his ear that he wasn’t sure after whether he’d really heard them, “I don’t judge you for this, I have no right.”

After he’d finished Mal had looked up to see a wariness in Simon’s eyes, and something else, something he couldn’t put a name to right away. The reasons for Simon’s frigid politeness and whispered words not making themselves known until months later.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Hey! Hey Mal, you in there?”

Jayne’s voice calling him back from memories, looking up to see him still leaning against the ladder, 'cause he knows better than to step across the cabin surprising a man deep in thought.

“You packing?”

Asking the question because tonight he’s tired, bone and brain weary, tired from thinking, from fighting, from loading and unloading cargo. Tonight he doesn’t want to have to worry about concealed knives and gashes that’ll take too long to heal and slow him down.

Shake of Jayne’s head, but the glitter in the eyes tells him all he needed to know.

“What? Not even that itty bitty knife you keep in your boot?”

Watching Jayne bend, and yeah he’s not too tired to admire the play of muscles in his arms or across his back, as Jayne pulls the knife free and straightens up, tossing it easily from hand to hand.

Arching an eyebrow at Jayne and waiting…until he stops throwing the knife, until there’s a scowl directed his way.

“Awwww – it ain’t fair when you take all the fun outta this.”

Grinning back, hand resting on the butt of his gun, chin tipping at the desk on the opposite side of the cabin from the bunk.

“Lose the weapons, all of them, over there.”

Watching as another long bladed knife appears, drawn from the back of Jayne’s waistband, thin knuckle dusters from a pocket, a needle-gun from nowhere, all piled onto the desk.

Jayne turns around, hips resting against the desk, arms spread wide, expression one of injured innocence.

“Wanna frisk me just to be sure?”

Shaking his head, too tired for games, his fingers unbuckling his gun belt and dropping it at the head of his bunk, near enough should he need it.

Footsteps crossing the cabin, a hand sliding into his hair, mouth hot and demanding on his, bodies bouncing off the bulkhead so hard he’s almost minded to apologize to her for their carelessness

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Later, much later, lying in the mess of his bunk, sweat soaked sheets tangled around hips and legs, the coppery taste of blood on his tongue and a warm, breathing body pressed close, he feels beholden to repeat the words he always says. Not sure why he does, except they have the comfort of words spoken by rote, hoping that if he speaks them often enough they’ll sink in.

“Don’t ever try me for control of this boat Jayne, 'cause I will kill you.”

Thick, strong fingers, fingers used to handling weapons and dealing damage trace the new marks on his body with a light touch. Moving along the lines of bites and scratches from collarbone to nipple, pausing to press over the dullish red marks on his belly, signifying new bruises well earned, until they curl around his hip and pull him close.

Jayne’s head rolls on the pillow as they shift and move together, bright eyes glittering at him through the half-light, one…two slow, lazy blinks sent his way. Shadows spilling down the face he knows so well, bleeding into the creases either side of Jayne’s mouth, lips twisting to reveal a flash of teeth, the smile a forerunner of a deep rumble of laughter that bears no malice at all.

Words whispered into his ear as sleep reaches up to claim him. Same words Jayne always gives him back.

“Only if you beat me to the draw, Mal…only if you beat me to the draw.”

Strange that he sleeps the deepest, awakes most rested when he spends the nights with the man he can least trust out of his crew.

~ fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [tesla321's](http://tesla321.livejournal.com/) birthday ficathon. The request was for Mal/Jayne.
> 
>  _ta ma de bu hui hen de po fu_ \- motherfucking remorseless harridan
> 
>  _Chi ni de_ \- screw you


End file.
